


Schubert's 8th

by demizorua



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (don't like how ao3 has their real names as th tag but. fine.), (i guess? it's Blood but it's minecraft), (look i just wanted to write that one scene with philza and wilbur), (yea wilbur's dead now pog champ), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demizorua/pseuds/demizorua
Summary: Franz Schubert's Symphony No. 8 in B minor, D 759, commonly known as the Unfinished Symphony, is a musical composition that Schubert started in 1822 but left with only two movements.
Relationships: Fuck Off They're Real People, No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Schubert's 8th

**Author's Note:**

> _listen okay okay okay i know_
> 
> i've been really stressed lately and the funny minecraft men roleplay series has been helping me not be in a constant panic, so uhhh i wrote this thing real quick because DAMN that war finale, huh? just. Wow. God Damn.
> 
> also wilbur has confirmed that He's Dead Now so like. that's why it's tagged that way.

Phil was digging out a slime chunk deep underground when he caught wind of the chaos.

He’d been on edge all day long, the watchers speaking of wars and conflict, murmuring stories of destruction and betrayal and suspense. Phil knew full well how volatile the lives of his sons had become, and the viewers assisted by filling in the pieces for him where his weekly letters weren’t enough. He knew about the revolution, about the election, about the exile, and he knew that the distant country his sons had set up in was once again on the brink of a violent war. He knew about the clashes between Wilbur and Tommy, between Tommy and Technoblade, and he knew about the political controversies they’d all been caught in the midst of. He knew about all the arguments and battles, and he knew just how tense relationships had gotten.

He knew about ‘plan B,’ about the TNT lining the caverns beneath the country his sons built from the ground up, about the madness dragging his poor Wilbur into the depths of insanity.

So when the observers grew loud once again, a wave of them returning from wherever it was that they went, singing tales of victory and conquest, Phil felt a sharp spike of unease pool in his gut. He hefted his pickaxe up over his shoulder as the little lights swarmed around him, chattering frantically, and he silently urged them to relax, to gather their thoughts into one.

Phil needed to know, needed them to tell him what was happening, where his kids were, where _Wilbur_ was, and he couldn’t take the time to sort through their frantically whispered chaos. Biting back the urge to swear and swipe at the baubles crowding his face as they continued to chatter indiscriminately, Phil instead let one of the lights fall into his hand, an audio feed crackling to life as they glowed. At first, all he heard were cheers and applause, congratulating the new president on his first speech, and he felt himself begin to relax as he listened to the joy and peace filtering through the link.

Then the cheers became more distant, and Wilbur began to speak.

“Chekov’s gun.” Wilbur let out a dry chuckle, and Phil felt his anxiety return full force in an instant. “I’ll be honest,” he murmured, voice distant and detached, “I’ve been wondering this whole time if it still works.”

The pickaxe hit the ground with an echoing clatter.

Phil was in the air before he could think, rocketing up the ventilation shaft in a sudden flurry of motion. He didn’t bother flying in the direction of his base, looking to the lights that hovered around his shoulders.

“Which way is he,” Phil asked, tone flat and disinterested to hide the terror gripping his heart. The watchers swarmed to his left side, buzzing with energy and unease, and Phil didn’t need any more information, powerful wing beats carrying him in the direction he was pointed. The wind howled in his ears and bit at his face, and Phil could only hope that he wouldn’t be too late, straining his muscles to fly faster, faster _he needs to go faster-!!_

“So. The button’s right there.”

Wilbur’s voice seemed to be echoing in his head, the viewers taking it upon themselves to keep him updated. Phil swore under his breath at the emotionless sound of his son’s voice, cursing himself for not taking action sooner. He’d seen the signs, he’d read the letters, he’d _known_ how bad things were getting, and still he did _nothing_. He’d just watched from afar, ignoring the warnings he’d seen, the letters he’d gotten that spoke of buttons and trinitrotoluene.

_Hey Philza, how’s it going, big man? It’s been CRAZY here, everyone’s LOST IT!!!!!!!!!! Wilbur’s out of his MIND, he wants to blow up L’manberg, and he got Dream to give him a load of TNT. TNT, PHILZA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And he’s planted it all somewhere below L’manberg, Phil, and he says he’s gonna destroy it, ~~and I’m scared~~ he’s gone insane!! And Techno’s given up, he says he just wants anarchy and chaos, and I heard him talking, he says he’s gonna kill everyone if he has to!!!!!!!! He’s gone off the deep end, they both have, and I’m DEFINITELY NOT scared, because I’m a big man and I’ve got it all under control, so don’t worry!!!!!!! I can handle it, don’t worry Philza, it’s fine!!!!!!!!_

_…………Some advice might be nice, though. I don’t need it, of course, but if you wanna……… yeah._

“If I’m gonna press it ever, it’s now.”

Pushing himself through the burning pain in his wing muscles, Phil urged himself to go faster as he broke the mountain range he’d been soaring over, a settlement peeking over the horizon amidst an evergreen forest. The faint smell of smoke reached his nose, the acrid scent the same one that had coated the singed paper he’d found on his doorstep not two weeks back.

_Hullo. I know you’re doing alright, you’ve always got everything under control. I miss our days with the Antarctic Empire. Everyone here is so lame. They just talk about diplomacy and politics and it’s so boring and pretentious. These government types are all the same, and I can’t wait until Will gives me the go-ahead to go cause some chaos. You know how it is._

_Tommy’s mad at me. They had a festival, and that dictator guy called me up to the stage. Everyone was looking at me, and he was telling me to kill this kid he had up there, Tommy’s friend. I didn’t know what to do, Phil, everyone was just yelling and staring; it was absolute chaos. And not the fun kind._

_I shot the kid, Phil._

_I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. I panicked. Tommy’s really torn up about it, even though I fought him and everything! I don’t get it, Phil, he won’t talk to me anymore. This would all be so much easier if you were here. You always knew how to talk to him._

“And… the thing that I _built_ this nation for doesn’t exist anymore!”

The pain in Wilbur’s voice was palpable, frustration overlaying a deep underlying sadness. Phil grit his teeth as he pushed ahead, guilt weighing heavily on him as he heard the loneliness dripping from the voice of his son, the same loneliness he’d seen in a letter just this morning.

_It's all over, Phil. They've all left me. I'm putting an end to this. I'm blowing this whole place to bits, Phil, it's gonna be great!! I'm using the TNT trick you taught me, are you proud of me? I'm gonna blow L'Manberg to pieces, and then it'll all be over!!! Finally, no more warring, no more expectations, no more judgment…_

_I never was the greatest at building, was I Phil? Not like you, at least. I think that’s for the best, really._

_Because now I can try my hand at destroying instead!! :)_

The rest of the page had been covered end to end in scribbles of the same batch of words, an increasingly unhinged repetition of his long-forgotten anthem.

“The — the thing I worked towards…”

Phil tucked his wings inward, angling himself downwards and diving down towards the scattered buildings he recognized from his sons’ letters. The wind whistled past his face, and Phil let himself believe that his eyes were only watering because of the high speeds.

“…doesn’t exist anymore.”

Reaching the edge of the player-claimed lands, Phil felt the familiar push of the area’s selective border keeping him out, forcing him back with a powerful, unrelenting gust of wind. Reaching out, Phil pushed against the gating system, straining to break through the whitelist.

He needed to get in.

In the distance, a collection of colorful buildings stood tall and proud, people milling about with a slight tone of panic. He recognized some of the structures from the pictures Tommy and Wilbur had sent him, images of a proud, smiling group of people standing in ornate war uniforms, eyes dancing with joy.

Phil had been so proud when he heard his sons were establishing a nation, fatherly pride mixing with the contagious enthusiasm of a new project he felt as a builder. He knew how exciting it was to start a new build, how intoxicating the joy of creation was, so knowing that his sons and their friends were getting together to create something of their own was the greatest joy he could feel as a father _and_ a fellow builder. He got to watch from afar as the country was formed from the ground up, and he knew just how much passion everyone had put into this labor of love, Wilbur and Tommy especially.

Phil had watched Wilbur pour his heart into the creation of L'manberg, and he wasn't about to let him blow it all up.

Shifting his wings back so they were spread out flat, Philza let the defensive air current that was keeping him out hold him aloft, allowing him to redirect his attention away from staying in the air. Reaching out to one of the glowing observers surrounding him, Phil silently pointed towards the familiar presence of his son, urging the viewers to hurry as a few of them faded to patch him into Wilbur’s location.

A deep sigh came from Wilbur’s end, the revolutionary sounding tired and resigned, and Phil heard the light chime indicating the connection was now mutual just as Wilbur started to speak again.

“It’s over.”

“What are you doing.”

For a few tense seconds, the only sounds Phil could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of wind against his wings, and the faint chitters of the remaining watchers. Just as he’d opened his mouth to speak, scared Wilbur hadn’t heard him, a small, hesitant voice rang out in his head.

“…Phil?”

Phil felt his heart break even more, Wilbur sounding just like the scared, lonely child he’d taken in almost a decade ago. He’d prepared himself to hear the proud, self-assured voice of the general Tommy had described in his letters, perhaps twisted with a hint of madness and insanity, but nothing could have softened the blow of hearing his son sounding so frightened and defeated.

“What are you doing,” he repeated, voice hardly louder than a croak. Phil forced himself to swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat, waiting with bated breath for something, _anything_ from the man on the other side of the wall.

“Phil, where are you?” Wilbur’s voice was hesitant and hopeful, and the faint rustling of fabric could just barely be heard as he presumably looked around for Phil. Closing his eyes, Phil willed himself to stay calm, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

He needed to get to his son.

“I’m on my way right now,” he said, brushing some stray hairs out of his face as he slowly lowered himself back down to the edge of the borderlands. Another powerful gust of wind pushed against him, but Phil ignored it, angling his wings vertically so the force wouldn’t carry him away.

“Wh— y— _how?_ ” he heard Wilbur say, the tempest screaming around him as Phil finally reached the very edge of the whitelist itself. “You — this is —”

“I’m breaking in.” Taking a final deep breath, Phil picked out a spruce tree that was near his hovering location, shakily angling himself towards it. The winds howled in protest, but Phil kept his attention on Wilbur’s shaky reply as he strained against the powerful barrier.

“Y-You’re _breaking in?_ ” Wilbur’s voice was incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe that Phil would have any way of getting to him. “What??” That was a misguided belief, of course; Phil knew full well how to bypass selective gates like this, albeit at a bit of a price. It’d been a while since he’d last performed this trick, though, so he could only hope that it would go as planned.

“I’m getting in, Will,” Phil murmured, unsure if Wilbur could even hear him over the torrent of wind, “right now.” Abruptly tucking his wings in against his sides, Phil let himself begin to free fall towards the surface, pulling into a head-first dive as quickly as he could. He kept his wings flattened against his back, using the rapidly building momentum to force himself through the barrier, a sudden jolt of agony running through the large appendages as he did. Wilbur must’ve said something in response, but Phil was too focused on landing in the tree he’d spotted to pay any attention as he crashed through the brittle branches. He felt his wings snap and give way, blinding white pain coursing through him as he finally hit the ground.

“I’m not — I wasn’t doing anything,” Wilbur said, seemingly unaware of the shaky landing, “we just…” Phil’s wings ached with a bitter numbness, typical of realms that disallowed flight, but he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much as he leaped out of the tree’s embrace. “We just made Tubbo president!” Tubbo, Tubbo, that’s Tommy’s friend, the one that had — _he killed Tubbo, Phil, he shot him with a firework, Tubbo had burns all over him when he respawned,_ — been a part of L’manberg’s initial founding. “We — we, um… we elected Tubbo president and we won!” Forcing himself to his feet, Phil took off after the shimmering trail of spectators, trusting that they would take him to where he needed to be. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, at the moment. “We won the war! Schlatt’s gone — Schlatt’s gone, Phil, so it’s, um… it’s good.”

Phil hummed, mind finally catching up to Wilbur’s panicked rambling. He didn’t believe the man for a second, as much as it pained him to do so, and the antsy monologue wasn’t doing much to convince him otherwise. Coming out into a clearing, Phil found himself closer to the buildings he’d seen before, shouting coming from just over the hill ahead of him. The viewer’s lights were clustered around one edge of the hill, murmuring about a bunker as they circled the discolored area. He’d left his pickaxe back in the cavern.

“So,” he began, the silence between the two men making him uneasy, “you are… _where_ exactly, now?” Pushing up the sleeves of his cloak, he began digging through the haphazardly blocked off tunnel, knowing full well his son was just on the other side.

“In… L’man… berg, there’s s— the area — you wouldn’t know it, I don’t think you’ve been here, but it’s th-the area… around… L’man— it’s complicated, it’s — geo-geography and that, y’know, it’s — it’s…” With a final tug, Phil managed to create a big enough gap for himself to fit through, and he wasted no time slipping through into the bunker his son had dug out. Stumbling down the short hallway, Phil wanted so badly to believe that this was just another one of Wilbur’s geography games or tangents, but as his voice grew closer, it became abundantly clear that wasn’t the case.

Fireworks went off in the distance, the sound making the entire cavern tremble, and Phil stood in the entryway as dust rained down on both him and his broken son. Wilbur slowly turned around, eyes wide and brimming with emotion, and Phil felt his brow crease as the two stared at each other, silent.

“… Phil…?” Wilbur whispered, face caked with grime and soot. Humming in a quiet acknowledgment, Phil tuned out the frantic chattering of the watchers gathered around both him and Wilbur, attention wholly on the man in front of him. The man in torn and tattered clothes, covered in blood and dirt and ash and all manner of things he should never have encountered. The man with dirty, tangled hair, singed with the same burns that littered his hands and face. The man standing alone in a dim, dusty cave, the man responsible for the angry carvings lining the walls, the man with gray eyes that seemed to stare through him, foggy and cloudy and dim.

The man he had once called his son.

“Yeah,” Phil sighed, staring sadly at Wilbur’s expression, like a kid caught in the cookie jar, only with so much more at stake. “‘In L’manberg,’ you said.”

“But…” Wilbur’s eyes darted frantically around the room, seemingly drawn to the ominous button just behind him. “This is L’man—” He paused, licking his dry, cracked lips in hesitation. Wilbur swallowed thickly, staring pointedly at the ground just in front of Phil, and sounded so choked up and miserable once he spoke again that Phil had to stop himself from rushing forward to comfort him on impulse, only taking a few small steps into the room instead. “Okay. I will… admit…”

Phil crossed his arms as Wilbur struggled to put his thoughts into words, pulling the best ‘disappointed dad’ face he could muster. He was so overwhelmed with emotion as he watched his son scramble for an explanation; he wanted to scream at him, to plead for Will not to do this to their family and to himself, wanted to slap him and ask how he could ever dare be so _selfish_ , so _broken_ , wanted to hug him so tightly that he would never feel unloved again. He wanted to do so much, and yet he just stood there, silently blinking back tears.

“Do you know what this button is?” Wilbur finally asked, hand hovering dangerously close to the small piece of wood.

“I do,” Phil replied, nodding with a blank expression that hopefully hid how scared he was. Not for himself, of course, but for Wilbur.

“A-And…” Wilbur paused, breath hitching slightly, and turned towards the mad ramblings scrawled into the rock surrounding them, “h-have you heard… th-the song… on the walls, before?” He glanced at Phil, expression heart-wrenchingly dejected. “Have you heard the song?”

Phil nodded slowly, looking over at the markings Wilbur had gestured to. He remembered the words neatly inked on the back of the photo he’d received, and the watchers hadn’t stopped humming the short tune for days and days on end.

_Well, I heard there was a special place_   
_Where men could go and emancipate—_

“I have.” The haphazard carvings decorating the bunker were nothing like the sweetly written words sitting on the picture tucked into Phil’s breast pocket.

“See — see, I was just-!!” Wilbur bounced in place, his entire body jolting like he’d been struck by lightning, his face lighting up in a manic grin to match. “It says there _was_ a special place,” he crooned, gesturing to one section of the writings, “there _was_. A-And there was, once! Once upon a time, i-it was real! It — it _existed_ , Phil! _My_ L’manberg!!” Despite the energy with which he was rambling, Wilbur’s eyes looked almost sad in response to his statement, darkening near the end of his tirade. “But… now…” he sighed, “even with Tubbo in charge, it’s… it’s not _there_ anymore. It’s not…”

“It _is_ there,” Phil offered gently, once Wilbur had trailed off. “You’ve just… you’ve just won it back, Will.” Wilbur inhaled deeply, and Phil knew he’d said the wrong thing when the disheveled man’s head snapped up to stare at him, the last hints of an almost-extinguished fire blazing behind his eyes.

“PHIL, I'M ALWAYS _SO CLOSE_ TO PRESSING THIS BUTTON, PHIL!!” Wilbur’s voice may have been loud, and his words may have been angry and biting, but Phil couldn’t get past the slight tremor beneath his shouting, the smallest hint of the pain and exhaustion Wilbur was surely feeling. “ I HAVE BEEN — I HAVE BEEN HERE… LIKE… SEVEN OR EIGHT TIMES I HAVE BEEN HERE… seven or eight times…”

Phil sighed deeply as Wilbur laid his head in his hands, shoulders sagging as the burst of aggression petered out into weary resignation. Footsteps sounded from above the hollowed-out cavern, causing a small rain of dust to fall on the father-son duo, and angry, panicked shouting could be heard in the distance.

“Phil,” Wilbur muttered, voice muffled from behind his hands, “I’ve been here _so many times_ …” Fireworks popped from beyond the layers of stone and dirt, — _he doesn’t understand, Phil, I was forced to hurt his friend and he still wants a new president. He doesn’t get it, Phil, I need to show him, I need to **show them**_ — and Wilbur groaned in tired frustration. “They’re fighting.” Looking back up at Phil, Wilbur thrust one hand out in anger, gesturing in the direction of the commotion. “They’re fighting!”

“And you want to just blow it all up.” It wasn’t a question, and Phil didn’t phrase it as one. They both knew the answer, as Wilbur sighed deeply, just as they both knew who was behind the distant explosions of color.

“Da—” Wilbur stopped himself, mouth snapping shut as if he’d almost made a mistake, and Phil’s heart twisted in sorrow. “I do. I think… I…”

“You fought so hard to get this — this land back,” Phil tried, fully aware that only Wilbur knew the full extent of how much he had suffered. “So hard.” Wilbur’s eyes were glued to the floor, ash-caked hands fisted deep in his messy hair.

“I don’t even… I don’t even know if it works anymore, Phil. I don’t even know if the button works.” Phil sighed, knowing by Wilbur’s tone of voice that it wasn’t true, and Wilbur knew it. “I could — I could… press it… and… it might…”

“Do you really want to take that risk?” Phil whispered. Wilbur tore his longing stare away from the button, his eyes turning to gaze sadly at his father instead. Fireworks and crossbow shots sounded from nearby, but the thin layer of earth made them seem distant and unimportant. Phil held Wilbur’s gaze, silently pleading with the man, with his _son_ , tears welling up in his eyes when one of the voyeuristic bubbles called Wilbur’s name in a familiar, childish voice.

Something in Wilbur’s eyes shattered at the quiet voice, and Phil saw the horrible moment that his son stopped fighting, the moment he gave up.

“Phil… there was a saying, once.” The chaos beyond the bunker only continued to draw closer, but it might as well have been a million miles away. “A saying by a traitor, once part of L’manberg.” Wilbur smiled almost fondly at Philza, but the resignation in his eyes made it hard for Phil to return it. “I don’t know if you’ve heard it.”

“Yeah?” Phil said, keeping his voice steady in the face of what he knew was to come. Wilbur took one last look at his father, a thousand unsaid words dancing in their eyes, before he turned away, his outstretched hand trembling. They both knew where this was going, and so too did the viewers, ten thousand voices whispering in tandem.

“ _It was never meant to be._ ”

The tell-tale hiss of dynamite filled the empty room, and Wilbur looked at Phil one final time before the world exploded into a blinding flash of light, heat, and the smell of smoke and gunpowder.

.....

....

...

..

.

Phil stumbled forward as the dust began to settle, coughing as he stepped into the glaring sunlight. Wilbur’s shaky, unsettled breathing was accompanied by the sound of the wreckage around them settling, foundation crumbling as the earth beneath them shook with the kickback of the distant continued explosions.

“Oh my god…” Where a proud, war-ragged nation had once stood, one that Phil had only gotten to see in pictures, now sat an ominous crater of destruction, water from the nearby canals flowing in to fill the basin. “It’s all gone,” he breathed, afraid to speak louder than a whisper lest he disturb some forgotten, untriggered explosives.

Turning back to check on Wilbur, Phil found the man staring wide-eyed at the destruction with a crazed, trembling grin set wide across his face. His labored breathing soon devolved into shaky laughter, wheezes filling the dusty, stagnant air as Wilbur collapsed to his knees with a cackle.

“ _MY_ L’MANBERG, PHIL” Wilbur cried, hysteria wracking the man with full-body trembles. “MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY, _FOREVER UNFINISHED!!!_ ” The smoke and debris filled the pair’s lungs with soot, and every breath they took coated their throats with a thick layer of dust. The silence surrounding the two was deafening, people in the distance pushing aside rocks and rubble, climbing to their feet in stunned disbelief.

Phil was among them, watching in silent horror, until the familiar hilt of a well-used sword was thrust into his hand.

“Phil,” Wilbur snapped, eyes wide and manic, “kill me. Phil — Phil, kill me.” Closing his father’s hand around the sword he’d shoved at him, Wilbur brought the edge of the blade up to his own neck, pressing it there with a crazed grin. “Phil, stab me with this sword, murder me now, kill.” Phil was shell-shocked, breathless as Wilbur’s frenzied stare bore into him with an intensity he’d never seen from him before. “Kill me. Killza,” Wilbur cackled at his own dark joke, the sword pushing further against his neck, just barely not hard enough to break skin. “Killza!” When Phil only stared at him in horror, something in Wilbur’s eyes darkened, a simmering rage bubbling to the surface alongside the berserk grin he sported.

“Do it!” Wilbur shouted, tone turning pained and desperate. “Kill me, Phil! Murder me! Look,” he cried, flinging a hand out towards the wreckage, “they all want you to!” Countless pairs of eyes turned towards father and son, the two locked in a stand-off no parent should ever have to face. “Do it, Phil! Kill me!!” The elder’s hand remained steady, something he’d always prided himself on, but the tips of his wings trembled ever so slightly, nigh unnoticeable but for the subtle shifting of broken feathers.

“I can’t—”

“Phil, kill me,” Wilbur said, cutting off Phil with a gentle, almost fond plea.

“I can’t, you’re my _son!!_ ” Phil shouted, drawing more attention from various observers. Wilbur met his enraged, desperate eyes with a confident stare that belied nothing, smirking as if this whole thing was somehow amusing to him.

“Phil, kill me!” Wilbur repeated, whining like a petulant child as if he wasn’t urging his own father to end his life. Phil felt his eyes beginning to water, jaw set as he stared his broken, tormented son in his lifeless, hollow eyes.

“No matter what you do — no matter what you’ve done,” Phil said, “I-I can’t…” He felt his resolve begin to wilt beneath the other’s determined gaze, exhaling slowly in an attempt to keep his composure.

“Phil.” The elder shook his head, silently begging, pleading with the man beneath his borrowed blade. “This is it — this is — it — look!” Wilbur gestured haphazardly to the wreckage surrounding them, his focus never wavering. “ _Look!!_ How much work went into this, Phil, and it’s _gone._ ” He locked eyes with Phil, daring him to object, to disagree, to say even a word in opposition.

Phil looked out at the smoking wreckage. He saw people digging through the debris, desperate to rescue friends and enemies alike. He saw a man in a thick striped beanie running around, surveying the damage in horror. He saw a woman cradling a younger boy, burns covering his face and chest. He saw a fox trapped beneath a pile of dirt and rubble, clawing at the ground in front of him as he stared directly at them, tears staining his fur.

He saw Techno bearing a crossbow and sword, his eyes crazed in that unique, predatory way. He saw Tommy standing at the lip of the crater, watching the scene with clear desperation.

He saw Wilbur in front of him, eyes brimming with pain and with sorrow, with untapped guilt and latent insanity. Wilbur urged the sword closer to his neck, coating the blade with the smallest amount of blood as it finally broke skin.

“Do it,” Wilbur commanded, voice low and emotionless. The mania had faded from his expression, leaving only cold resignation and disgust. Phil inhaled shakily, the sword heavy in his grip. “Do it—”

The sword jerked forward, cutting a deep, clean slice across Wilbur’s neck. Phil sighed heavily, eyes screwed shut as his son slumped to the floor, lifeless.

A halo of crimson fanned out behind the fallen angel’s head.

Phil dropped the blood-coated blade like it had burned him, tossing it off the edge of the crater and into the water below. His hat cast a dark shadow over his face, wings hanging limply at his sides as he stared at dark, dead eyes, once filled with so much joy and life.

“God,” he sighed, clenching his fists tightly, “you couldn’t just… you couldn’t just win.” The body in front of him had no response, although Phil swore he could hear a distant, echoing chuckle ring out in his head, laughter that he would never hear again. Turning out towards the wreckage once more, Phil picked up the accursed sword, reluctantly arming himself for battle.

He’d already lost one of his sons today.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“ _Bye-bye, Phil._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> gonna take this opportunity to shamelessly promote the dream SMP multi animator project i'm hosting!! it's to the song kangaroo court by capital cities, please check it out and maybe join if you want to okay thanks!!
> 
> <https://youtu.be/AH6wC5e4viQ>


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